Thursday, December 29, 2011

Most of you mugs probly heard about old Doc Massey’s revolutionary improvement on the Paleo Diet. Me and Joey we been paleo from way back; but now the Doc says it’s okay to add red wine to your haunch of venison:

Monday, December 26, 2011

As a private eye, I dealt with some plug-uglies in my time;heck, I’m not much to look atmyself.But take it from Murphy -- you can’t tell a man by his mug.Some of the smoothest operators have cheeks as smooth as a baby’s rump.

Take Michael Douglas -- good-looking guy -- but as Gordon Gecko, he played Satan.And right now, there’s a fellow running for President, might almost be Gecko’s twin.Handsome man, gorgeous wife, photogenic kids … and deadly poison for the working-man.Dr Justice has got his number here.

Saturday, November 26, 2011

You want to go take a gander at my drinking buddy Dr J -- who is by the waythe Designated Linguist for this very site, and not nearly as dumb as he looks -- plus read some free Murphy stuff plus other goodies, just click here:

Sunday, October 30, 2011

[A brand-new Murphy story -- Read it for free -- Then buy some of the items on offer]

Cash On Deliverance

Getting late-on in the morning; sunlight slanting through the blinds. Murphy’s hands tremble as he lights his first Camel of the day, cupping the match in his hand. They often do that until he’s had a couple of smokes, a cuppa java, and maybe a beer, and a prayer.

He freezes as he hears a light knock at the door -- the one that says “Murphy Brothers -- Private Investigators -- Discretion Assured”. Still says that even though Joey died a while ago. He hasn’t the heart to take it down.

He pauses and listens, the cigarette still in his mouth but unlit, and mouths around it, gruffly (needing that smoke) “C’mon in”; then finishes lighting up and breathes in a deep and soothing plume.

Standing on the threshold, in bobby sox and Mary Janes, is an unaccompanied young girl. Murphy raises an eyebrow.

“I have come to you,” she says, gravely, with hornbook correction of articulation, “about an important case.”

Murphy nods: Go on.

“I need you to find a missing person.”

Murphy shrugs. Him & Joey, only kinda case they used to get. “And that missing person would be … ?”

She stood up a little straighter, her voice precise and clear: “Me !”

~

Murphy took another drag and cast his eyes Lordward. “Why do you keep sending me cases like this?”

“Unfortunately I can’t pay you,” the little girl went on. “I don’t have a dime to my name.” Illustratively, she turned out the large patch-pockets on her pretty gingham dress: they were empty but for some tissues and a tiny teddy-bear.

Murphy mumbled, “I know, I know,” and waved her narrative on.

“But I am fully prepared,” a bit primly, “to write you an I.O.U.”

“Hm, right; backed by your full faith and credit. -- Okay, so you’re a missing person. Tell me about it.”

“Well as you can see for yourself, I am all alone, and of tender age --“

“How tender?”

“Twelve. -- … of tender age, and left entirely to my own devices, thrown upon the mercy of an unfeeling world. Free to roam the streets at will, to take up with bad companions, exposed to all the vices of a modern metropolis, to the rude stares of men who are no gentlemen --“

“Yeh, yeh, write a novel,” Murphy cut her off. Sheesh, everybody wants to be a writer these days. “Do your parents know where you are?”

“They do not; nor do they seem to care. But more to the point -- “ here becoming rather pert-- “I don’t know where they are; and it rather seems I ought to.”

Now Murphy was perplexed. “So -- in what sense are you missing?”

“I am missing from my parents’ lives.”

~

They sat down together at the kitchen table -- Murphy reluctantly snubbing out his smoke, after taking one long final drag -- and discussed particulars. Lisa -- for that was the young girl’s name -- had brought with her one photograph each of her mother and her father, a bit grainy but sufficient for identification. She knew their names including their middle names, what brand of car both of them drove, and a few of their favorite haunts -- though these, only by hearsay. Murphy said he’d get right on it, and Lisa said to meet her back, so soon as he should have new developments, at the soda shoppe in the next street over.

And then -- well, why bore you with the details. All of these missing-persons deals are sort of the same. You do some looking-up in the files, and some legwork, and pretty soon -- unless your quarry is both trying to hide and very skilled at doing so -- not the case in either of the present instances -- you find your man. Heck, most of you reading this are probably private eyes yourselves, just like me -- done your share of chases down alleyways, and dodging the slugs from a .45 as they ricochet off the bricks -- you all know the drill.

And so, after a bit of nosing around and calling-in a couple of markers, Murphy found the address he wanted: Jezebel’s Pinkynails, between the hairdresser’s and the boutique for ladies’ shoes.

He recognized her immediately from the photograph, despite the mudpack and the curlers. She was being fawned-over by creatures neither woman nor man as she held out her hand like Cleopatra, asp and all; it was enough to make any normal man sick.

He walked up to her without preamble. “I am here on behalf of your daughter.”

She scowled and glared over at him. “What -- you gonna ask for her hand? Prevert! She’s only eleven. I’m calling the cops.”

“Twelve,” murmured Murphy, to no-one in particular. This did not look promising, and he started to leave; then turned at the door. “Can you tell me where I might find your husband?”

“How the hell should I know -- am I my husband’s keeper? Probably out drinking somewhere.”

Hmm, thought Murphy; I would be too.

~

Discouraged, Murphy nonetheless kept his date with his client, whom he found at the shoppe, sipping a chocolate malted.

“I thought you didn’t have a dime.”

“I didn’t, and don’t.”

“So who bought that for you?”

“Michael.” No further information being volunteered, Murphy plowed on.

“I… found your Mom. She’s -- all right. She didn’t ask about you; I’ll tell you about it later. Right now I’ve got a lead on your dad.”

“Good luck.”

~

He finally found the guy at one of those bricked-in saloons where it looks like four in the morning any time of the night or day, lit mostly by illuminated beer-signs. The man was sitting alone at one end of the bar, boring a bartender with his maudlin stories.

Murphy came right out with it. “Your daughter --“

“Daughter? I have no daughter. How sharper than a serpent’s tooth! -- Barkeep, another one.” And he stared into his glass, looking very sorry for himself.

~

Grimly, Murphy went back to the shoppe and did what had to be done.

“Sister, I’m gonna lay it on you straight. Your parents have both drowned -- in vats of their own narcissism. There’s nobody there for you, kid.”

She nodded, with a little frown, that only involved the space between the eyes, and briefly pursed her lips. “I know.”

“I wish I knew what to do, I really do,” he went on, helplessly. “Anybody you need me to shoot for you? I’m better at that. Some gangster type, extorting your lunch money, I could scare him off? Or -- some love somebody left in a dumpster somewhere: I could find that dumpster, I could seek it out. I could dive in and swim and dive deep till I found the buried love, and bring it up, wrapped in a blue blanket, and bring it to you, and lay it at your feet …”

Lisa was silent.

Just then an angel walked into the room.

Lisa did not seem surprised.

“Oh, hi Michael. This is Murphy, by the way, the man I mentioned. Murphy, meet Michael; Michael, meet Murphy. I have him working for me on a little case.”

Murphy stared at the newcomer. “You’re not…the Michael?”

A modest nod. “In the flesh -- so to speak.”

Murphy could not believe the evidence of his senses. “The angel ? ! ?”

“Archangel, actually, but let’s not stand on ceremony. You may call me Mike.”

Not quite knowing what to say, Murphy just stammered. “I guess I’m just .. a Michael, myself. Michael’s my name too.”

“I know; you’re my namesake. -- Parents should be aware, by the way, that it actually helps to give their children good Christian names. We can’t help being influenced -- we’re only angelic. I intervened in this case when I heard you were involved. Been watching your work, some, there, over the years.”

Murphy just did not know what to say.

“You know,” the angel continued, on a more serious note, “this case, and a million others like it in this country today, is among the toughest you have ever had or ever will. In fact, it’s time to break it to you: This one is utterly beyond your powers. This one can’t be settled by a gat, or a sockdolager to the midsection. The moral desertification that has parched this land, has spread so far, not even all your tears could water it back to life. Nothing, in fact, short of divine intervention, can avail at this point. So, as the FBI says when they move in on a scene: Thanks for your help; we’ll handle this case from here on out.”

Murphy knew not what to think. Without knowing what to say, still he said it, spluttering: “This is nuts ! No but -- how’m I s’poseta -- What self-respecting P.I. winds up a case this way?! This is worse than those trick endings out of Agatha Christie. It’s a freakin’ deus ex machina!”

“Angelus ex paradiso,” Michael corrected.

Then he and the girl left together, forever out of Murphy’s life.

~

Back at his walkup -- dim and undusted ever since his brother had died -- he found waiting for him, in the center of the kitchen table, an envelope stamped SPECIAL DELIVERY, though without postage. Inside it were a pair of twenty-dollar bills, in appreciation for his time and shoeleather. Which, Murphy reflected, understanding it all at last, made it one of the most profitable cases he had ever had.

Saturday, October 8, 2011

Heard the Kingfish orate once, and it was plain how a fellow might be taken in -- specially if he had mush for brains. Hitler he just sounded like a maniac to me, but if you grew up German -- probably sounded a lot like Huey Long.

Saturday, September 3, 2011

Me I’m mostly a pickle-barrel philosopher: no schooling to speak of, I just do my best. And I’m not bragging about the common-man angle either; I wish I were smarter, I really do. But even if I can’t quite crack the Meaning of Life, I do bear in mind what the man said to the doctors, quite some time ago:

Do No Harm

Now, some philosophers seem to have forgotten that. And old Doc Massey calls ‘em on it, over at his booth in Magnalia Square. Check it out.

Thursday, August 25, 2011

“So-o,” began the interviewer, casually checking his briefing notes. “We understand that you actually… believe in the Devil.”

Murphy shrugged, and took another sip of beer.

“I’ll take that as a ‘Yes’,” said the interviewer, making a check-mark in a box. Such an attitude, the notes said, is quite typical of those whose formal education does not extend beyond the third grade. “But for the benefit of our readers -- can you prove that he exists?”

Murphy looked upon the prideful little man with something like alarm. The fellow seemed dangerously close to offering an in, whereby he might learn the answer first-hand. But all he said was: “Why would I want to do that?” He gestured vaguely at the cityscape surrounding them -- the desolation, the ravaged faces, all the detritus of our frequent encounters with that insinuating liar, throughout history

“A man of few words, I see,” said the interviewer, pursing his lips. This was like pulling teeth. Why had he been given this stupid assignment? Mindy had somehow managed to snag a choice sit with the lastest fifteen-minute celebrity. How’d she do it? Probably blowing the boss. “Anyhow, I’ll put you down as a God-fearing and Devil-fearing man.” And he made a couple of check-marks.

Murphy made a No-no gesture as he swallowed. “Wrong adjective, man.” He seemed to space out awhile, thinking. The interviewer grimaced at the seconds ticking expensively by inside his Rolex. At last the t-shirted detective resumed. “I mean -- I guess you could say that, same way I fear pie-trucks, that could squash me flat. But I’m not … afraid of pie-trucks.”

Again he paused. The interviewer fretted how to wrap this thing up, but his object’s last utterance seemed to offer no way to proceed. He couldn’t very well continue, in the usual newsperson’s manner, with “And so, Michael -- how do you, personally, fee-eel, about pie-trucks?” -- That minx Mindy, she’s probably rocking back and forth right now, sharing a laugh with her complicit interviewee, her foot forward under the table in case his own foot might want to seek it out.

Speaking slowly, Murphy resumed. “I’m… wary of the Devil. You can write that down and quote me.” Now reduced to taking dictation, the interviewer did. “But see… the Devil’s not a boxer: any one of us could knock the stuffing out of him, in a fair fight. He’s more like jiu-jitsu-- use your own strengths against you.”

The interviewer was startled -- interested in spite of himself. “I thought he preyed upon people’s weaknesses.”

“Oh sure, sure, he’ll do that, he got nothing better to do. But them’s small potatoes. He goes for the strengths -- the strengths that are pointing the wrong way.”

This made no sense, but the interviewer wrote it down anyway. He would obviously have to go over his notes later. And Mindy had finally gone away from his mind.

“I mean… it’s not like he grabbed the apple, and shoved it down Adam’s throat. All he can do, really, is make these stupid little lame suggestions. Really pitiful, you start to think about it. Not a patch on a cougar, or a pie-truck.”

The interviewer now dropped his pen, and began to listen instead.

“They call him the Prince of Lies. And he can lie, all right. But he can’t even make a decent speech -- he can barely form a coherent sentence. He lets you do the talking.

“Like, you’ll be saying to yourself? What a blast it would be, to try heroin, or to cheat on your wife. And he’ll say, eyes glowing, ‘Yes, yes, go on!’ And you’ll say, ‘That Gladia bitch -- I think she fancies me.’ And he’ll nod vigourously, ‘No more -- no less than you deserve! Man like yourself!’ -- Heck, any flack on K Street could do better than that.”

Now it was the interviewer who spoke slowly. “And have you… personally… ever had any dealings with the Devil?”

This was the sort of juncture at which the interviewee was supposed to break down sobbing and Reveal All, to the delight of the home audience, wiggling their fannies on the Barca-lounger. Yet Murphy seemed surprisingly unconcerned.

“Yeh, we’ve had a few run-ins. And he’s won a round or two, on points. Never a knockout, though. But yeh, he generally puts in an appearance at some point, pretty much every case I’ve ever had.”

Now it was the interviewer who was strangely afraid. “Okay, time to wrap things up.” He glanced hurriedly at his Rolex -- or tried to: wrong wrist. “So, sum up, your attitude to the Devil is just basically, ‘God-damn him to Hell’.” A weak smile, hoping that the object would return it, and they would be back on the familiar ground of collusion.

No such luck.

“No -- no!” said Murphy, leaning forward. “I mean sure -- I guess you could say I despise the guy. But I… pray for him -- I pray daily -- praying that he, even he may repent, and be saved.”

Saturday, August 13, 2011

Poor Murphy, underinstructed, faced this problem with humor and terror.
The real story behind what was bothering him is explained here by Dr. Keith Massey, a philologist and an expert in Canon Law (and, at one time, a bit of a private detective himself, tracking down Ben Laden’s gang).

I showed Dr. Massey’s essay to the Murphy brothers, and all they could say was, “Whew!”

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

In case you think I’m fantasizing, or slumming, or making fun of them, when I talk about how the Murphys live -- just two rooms, crates for furniture, TV in hock -- that’s exactly how I lived in Berkeley, for several years. Actually in just one room, and I couldn’t hock the TV because I didn’t even own one. Didn’t own a phone. Didn’t own….I dunno, What? What do people own, anyway? I owned one pair of shoes, and two pairs of socks. Had a radio for a little while, left over from the relative affluence of college, but it was soon stolen; then no radio for a long time after that. Of course no car; transport was by a one-speed bike I bought, used and abused, for ten dollars. -- Actually very practical for Berkeley. Anything fancier got stolen. This thing I didn’t even have to lock. (Not that I owned a lock.)
No medical care, no dental. And if you think the Murphy penchant for pizza is down-market, think about it: they get a large, with everything on it. Me I couldn’t afford so much as a slice. Lived on brown rice and carrots, period, for the longest time. (That was partly a would-be spiritual thing in any case; I was in mourning for a lost girlfriend. And it is myself I am mocking, in that story about Murphy becoming a vegetarian.)

And… How did I feel about all this? If you imagine you detect a note of resentment here, that’s a misreading. My mind was simply elsewhere; I was thinking, intensely, about other things. And if anyone had pointed to the boring issue of material conditions, I would have looked around, puzzled, then said: I live like kings. In the Middle Ages, nobody owned as many books as I owned, used-paperbacks though they were. No one owned a typewriter (ah yes, I’d forgotten that, that I did own, in fact an electric: but that was not a possession, it was more like owning hands.) And as for gathering acorns and thistles in the snow, as our forefathers did -- heck, this was California. Fresh carrots! I -- Lived -- Like --- Kings…..

Tuesday, August 2, 2011

No -- nothing -- sorry. The phrase just occurred to me, and I figured I'd post it, as a sort of mantra or proof-text or theme for meditation.
Also -- just in case someone happens to google this telling phrase -- well, it'll take'em right here, where they belong.

Sunday, July 24, 2011

As Murphy neared the end of his time in reform school, he had acquired a reputation as -- paradoxically -- both feckless and fearless; keenly intelligent, in a rough untaught sort of way; and above all observant -- people would joke that he might have made an excellent Private Eye. Yet to all appearances, he nursed, neither that, nor any other ambition.
One day the head of the entire reform school -- Director Miller himself -- unexpectedly called young Murphy to his private office.
Murphy knocked; heard nothing; knocked again; let himself in.
The Director, hands clasped behind him, stood before the broad expanse of windows, his back to the room, his dark shape a shadow in the light. The blinds were down, though slightly canted; whether he was peering out through the slits, or sightlessly consulting his own private reflections, was not readily apparent. In any event, he now turned.
“Door behind you please.”
Murphy shut it.
“You may sit down.”
He remained standing.
Not pausing to take notice, the Director launched into what he had to say. “So, Master… Murphy: you have been with us for some time.”
“Sentence almost served, sir.”
“Yes. Right.” He frowned, and consulted his thoughts. Murphy stood silent.
“Bit of a weakness for automobiles, eh?” resumed the Director, attempting to strike a jovial note.”
“Yes sir.”
“But you won’t go ‘borrowing’ any more of them, once you are out.”
Murphy was silent. The Director looked up sharply; then resumed his discourse. “You’ve built a certain reputation here, during your stay.”
Murphy did not contradict.
“Deserved, I have no doubt.”
Again silence. Commentary seemed uncalled-for.
“Pluses and minuses, the good with the bad. But on the plus side -- a keen eye.” The Director himself fixed a gimlet orb on the young man standing there; Murphy shrugged.
The Director went on.
“There is always call -- always a market, for a keen eye.”
Murphy said nothing, yet considered this well; the idea was new.
“Keen enough -- plus perserverence -- name your own price, y’know?”
Murphy did not know; but he would learn.
“And the fact is -- the fact of the matter -- I could use a keen eye, just about now.”
Murphy said nothing: but now, not from reticence, or tact: he truly had no idea what this man could possibly mean.
“A keen eye and a good observer: who observes, without being observed.”
Murphy could not really parse this. As part of the furniture, he had never been really observed, or taken notice of; though, occasionally, nabbed red-handed.
“Who can observe, yet who, observing, can keep his own counsel: sharing his observations only with the appropriate employer.”
These words meant nothing; Murphy’s mind was alive with moths.
“Who knows the value of observation, and of discretion; for observation is of no value, unless discretion can be assured.”
Moths crazed by the echoes of reflections of flame.
“You are, I suspect… such a man.”
Nothing.
“Yes -- a man, I say -- for you have outgrown your short pants! You are coming in to a man’s estate: and there, there are those who would befriend you.”
Blind.
“Further your career.”
Blank.
(Now leaning forward confidentially.) “Lend an ear, lad. I have -- your Director -- as your Director: I have concerns.”
Concerns.
“About, well, for instance: the teaching staff. Your teachers. Competence and preparation and -- all that. Personal matters, too -- personnel, matters, ” correcting himself; and, meeting no response, he continued with grim light-heartedness. “Staff and all that. Custodial, and, as remarked… educational. Your…geography teacher, for example. Mrs. … what is her name, now…” And, meeting no help, he himself supplied the answer. “Mrs. …. Miller. I believe that is her name.”
“Yes, sir; Mrs. Miller, sir. Geography. -- Any relation, sir?”
Suddenly flustered, histrionically outraged. “No! No relation. None at all. Common name, that -- Miller. Common as … dirt…” The expression seemed connected with bitter reflections. “Common as… the dirt in the courtyard. Anyone might be named that.”
“Yes, sir.”
Forcing forward. “Anyhow -- this Mrs. … Miller … she is good friends with the mathematics master, I believe -- is that not so?”
A certain suggestion about the shoulders, though they did not actually shrug.
“Exchange -- the occasional joke, the old office gossip, that sort of thing; and perhaps, the occasional box of candy? Or flowers?” And, getting nothing: “The occasional… kiss?”
Murphy was now the bronze statue of Murphy, standing unseeing unhearing forever, where pigeons might nest.
Suddenly both practical and conspiratorial. “There’s something in it for you, Murphy. And -- by Beelzebub! -- you need a bit of something, you do.”
Nothing.
“Nothing to it, really; just keep your eyes peeled.”
Massively nothing.
“Of course -- got to back it up, you know; can’t go on just your say-so; wouldn’t stand up. But I’ve got a… little present for you, which you may keep, when this job is over. A tiny camera.” Nothing. “Fits in your palm.” Nothing, nothing. “And a little dictaphone….”
And suddenly that Nothing burst, like an ulcer, like a bubo -- like the original cosmological bubble that gave birth to the world. As Murphy, rearing, roaring, leapt over the desk, his arms suddenly strong with the strength of ten -- straining and screaming and strangling at the throat of this man.
“I don’t do divorce cases! I don’t do divorce cases!!!”

It took all within earshot, to pry the lad off.
For this, he was not beaten, nor even admonished; but summarily escorted from the premises, and expelled, legally a week short of expiration.
Municipal records are silent on his further career.

Saturday, July 23, 2011

So Murphy, so Murphy: do you then remember, when first you learned, to play the clown?
And indeed, in very deed he does.
That afternoon -- the day long dragging -- in the ill-lit classroom: where learning was a stranger, and the long rod ruled.
A sudden whim, or inspiration -- he crowed, he clowned.
And by the class was -- crowned. For all his classmates laughed, and clapped, at this unanticipated bright bird of paradise -- or purgatory -- appearing suddenly in the grey sky; and joy was unconfined.
He was the toast of the reform school. Several inmates, previously near-strangers, offered him a fresh or only half-smoked butt, in appreciation.
For all that, he was severely beaten. But it was worth it. -- After all, he was beaten daily, in any event; but for one brief instant, life had been… swwwwweeeeeettt ………….

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

In later years, he would recall that day: the man’s red blood, mingling with the boys’ pale tears, yielding something much better than either.
He still did not know, what thing it was; but he would speculate, and contemplate: as he drew the rich dense smoke, now deeply into his hungering lungs. These same sweet smokes, for which he used to be beaten, which he used to either filch or do without out: a pack might now be had, for little more than a quarter, with a respectful tip of the hat from the shopkeeper; decorated, to boot, with the tinted image of a dromedary, and a pyramid, so pleasing to the eye; progress, of a sort.
(Meanwhile, offstage, out of sight: other boys, and other orphans…)

Monday, July 18, 2011

After that, there were no more visits for a long time.
And yet one day, a friar appeared, in rude monk’s robes, uninvited.
And proceeded to the courtyard (past staff too astonished to effectually protest); where the boys were glumly going through the motions of their half-hour court-ordered fun.
And beheld them and -- with a moan, fell, splat, down flat upon his face, upon the cobblestones; words failing him. He could not preach; could barely pray.
“For-give us….!” he cried; and was perhaps somehow injured in that fall: for he bled from his hands; from his feet did he bleed; and he bled from his rib, from a ripe red gash… rivulets among the stained sad stones… bleeding like brooks, like… like bubbling, trout-stocked streams… where the fishermen stride, in boots hip-high -- beaming, laughing, hoisting their catch -- like fountains, like spindrift, like waterfalls … As the boys, knowing nothing, knew something yet better than ever they’d known…
And as that small seed -- smaller than a mustard -- was planted, amid the tares, amid the trees ….

Sunday, July 17, 2011

This cheerful visit having somehow failed of its intended effect, the institution finally, and reluctantly, went for “the strong stuff”, and invited a priest.
He was a small man, with apple cheeks. And a strawberry nose; and ruby lips. -- Not nearly so distant as his Protesting predecessors, he seemed to feel a real and genuine rapport with the boys. Well -- with some of the boys.
He spoke, in a general way, of -- this and that. All the while scanning the room.
And his words, indeed, though not memorable, were at least, by the echoes of tradition that still lingered in them -- said, whether or not meant -- still somehow encouraging: and some of the boys leaned forward; and some, their lips did part.
These, the priest noted particularly. As did he the auburn curls; the well-turned calf; or the dim-filmy-glittery eye…
You; and you; and you. “Come see me; by all means, drop by and see me; in my private quarters. Stay as long as you like. Discretion assured …”

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Somewhat embarrassed -- for, even though the taxpayers were not out a penny, the church having waived its usual fee, still the effect on the wards had not been all that might be wished -- the orphanage called in a substitute: this time a man from that soft and molded body, that the Anglican persuasion has taken on our shores.
“Well well well!” he said, pleasing his plump pink lips, as the shivering wastrels huddled beneath his gaze. “What a fine collection of young gentlemen we do have here!” He beamed, pleased; expecting their reflected pleasure; but met only bewilderment. -- In somewhat sharper humor, he went on. “I have -- very good news, for you all here. Your future is -- quite bright.” (Bewilderment among the boys.) “We are all finally emerging from very hard times -- a terrible great Depression, that has left many of your fathers -- well, many of your betters -- seriously on the downside in their brokerage accounts. And some people are actually…. “ (his lips pursed a bit, as he pronounced the unpleasant vocable) “…unemployed. And on the dole; which the better people pay for. -- But that… need not be your lot.”
The boys supposed this must be good news; but were not sure. They were unfamiliar with the concept of “joblessness” -- never themselves having held a paid job.
“Good news!” he proclaimed, regaining his joviality. “Good, very good news indeed. The nation is reviving. Like flowers in the spring, investors are once again raising their hopeful heads. The wheels of commerce are spinning once again -- banking, insurance, financial instruments of every variety and kind. We see evidence of this in our own congregation, on every side. Why -- to venture no further than the sales of yachts…. Mmm, in any event: There is a very great need, boys, a great need indeed, spreading throughout the land. A need that you -- and only you -- can well fulfill. The servant problem is -- “ Here he frowned, and seemed to recede into private, incommunicable reflections. “… frightful; simply frightful. -- But our trial and tribulation, is your benefit and boon! Be it doorman -- footman -- bootblack -- butler … why… the possibilities are endless! -- Indeed,” leaning confidentially forward, “some of my… Predestinarian friends….” (a private joke, beyond the ken of present company) “some of them might even spy in one or the other of you --“ -- and here indeed, he suddenly looked around, as though calculating -- “one destined or predestined for such higher office as chef, or major-domo, or concierge in one of the better hotels…”

Monday, July 11, 2011

Murphy’s period in the orphanage antedated these dark days of political correctness, by many years.Hence it was comparatively uncontroversial, to invite to that institution, a man of the Christian cloth, without inviting, for equal time, likewise a rabbi, and an imam -- nor a Buddhist, nor a Hindu, nor a Zoroastrian, nor a Wiccan, nor a devil-worshipper (of the latter sect, City Hall already was well-staffed).Yet we must confess, that the results were notin every instancehappy…

The municipal authorities arranged for a Protestant divine -- the choice seemed least controversial -- to drop by and give a little lecture to the boys.

The man that was sent, by rights should have exceeded expectations.No mere hedge-preacher, nor street-corner hawker of Bible bits:he was an ordained minister, with an advanced degree from a respected seminary, of Calvinist inclinations, where he had imbibed and absorbedthe hard high truthsof Predestinarianism;who regularly held forth, of a Sunday, from the high carved pulpit of a splendid church, to the unanimous and murmured approbation, of bevies of successful businessmen, and their well-dressed wives.

He curtly nodded acknowledgement to the servants who admitted him, and was reverently ushered to the main hall;where the boys waited, respectfully, anticipating they knew not what -- such a visit was unprecedented.

The man approached the lectern;adjusted the microphone;tapped his notes into alignmentwith a gesture that, many years later, Murphy would recall with rueful irony, as he slowly tapped his Camel-pack;cleared his throat emphatically, re-set his spectacles… and gazed around the room.

And… continued to gaze, but…

“I am sorry,” he said, hastily turning to the now whispering employees, and packing up his notes in confusion.“I have nothing to say here.These boys are all damned.”

Sunday, July 10, 2011

It was Lady Day;and a plate of seed-cakes had been set out on a table in the drawing-room for the boys, who were soon to file in, under the guidance of the Mistress, and each gratefully take just one.Displayed and waiting, in the empty room:yellow in the sunlight slanting, through lozenges of green and amber glass…

But that Murphy, nimbly and previously, had managed to slip in through the windowand gorge on them, famished and ravaging, stuffing his hunger, jamming into his pockets such pieces as he could not rapidly dispatch before detection.The sweetness of it, the lunging hunger;and the shame.

-- So bogus.The place was state-run -- they were lucky if they ever got Christmas, let alone “Lady Day”.What “seed-cakes” even were, he couldn’t tell you;probably read about them somewhere in a book.The place had never any library, let alone “drawing-room”;and as for the windows, they were grey and dusty, and (for obvious reasons) always locked.

(Looks up sharply.)“Murphy!Young rascal.What brings you here.”(Softening a bit, though;the boys seldom show up spontaneously, voluntarily.)

“Well I -- no-one else to ask, ma’am.I just got nobody, no, not one person, in the whole wide world.”

Definitely softening, and settling back -- almost reflective.“So… What’s on your mind, young Irish scamp?”

Awkward;fumbling for words -- then finding them.“Well I -- I just wonder what --what it is, really:that makes me so bad.”

She frowns;is silent;purses her thin lips.“I reckon it was just… a bad seed…”

“Bad seed, ma’am?”

She purses further.“There are two seeds in the spirit -- two of them, and don’t you forget it.You just happened to get the bad one. “

He is silent, not understanding;and yet, and yet … yet beginning to understand.

She decides to level with him.“You know -- you were conceived in iniquity, by a very bad woman, with a very bad man.But bad as she was -- he still should have stuck by her;made an honest woman of her, or near as anybody could with material like that. -- But he skedaddled, soon after soiling your young mother’s bed.He was a coward, and a welsher, was your dad.And the apple does not fall far from the tree.”

Had he ever known the man, this might strike Murphy like a blow;but he had never known the man.“So… I guess I was just -- born to sin;that right?Just plain -- simmered in it, ‘fore I was ever even born.That so?”

(Somewhereher heart smarts her;yet she must be stern in the truth.)“That is so, Master Murphy.You were born in sin, like a squid in ink;and will certainly be damned.”

Since this prognosis seems only to confirm the daily burden of his present life, it daunts him less than one might think.He simply verifies.“So:no hope, is there.”

“No;none.-- Well… there is… Jesus;but he is not for the likes of orphans, or reform-school boys…”

(The keen and screwed-up eye.)“Was that a smart remark?!-- Why I’ll--“ (reaching for the switch.)

“No’m -- not smart.A really dumb remark -- I see that now.”(Trembling as he spies once more, the instrument of his sharp distress.)“But a true one, ma’am. -- Can’t help it, ma’am.”(Wincing, wincing;shriveling beneath the blows.)“Can’t half help it.”(Wincing deeper now -- wincing even beneath the wincing skin.)“Gotta find some’n, someth’n, help me help it….”

(Furious)“I’m helping you!”

(More in sorrow)“No’m.All respect, ma’am, but -- no, you’re not helping, not helping at all.”

(The blows fall thick and fast -- herself almost at liquefaction, as in a dream -- while young Murphy shrivels, dwindles, to but a tiny remnant of his former self.)

Sunday, June 19, 2011

Free -- stuff? Hey, y’r readin’ it! Anyhow, if you want more Scully, or more Mailbag, or more wise Crackerbarrel ® musings, let alone more Murphy stories (which are already written and just pawing at the gate), hows about y’all buy some of these fi-i-ine products on display here, huh? I mean, I’m fine with writing some things for free -- and old Scully, he never charged a dime in his life -- but a man’s gotta eat -- and drink -- and fornicate; and pageviews won’t buy any of that that, nor wooden nickels neither.

Tuesday, May 31, 2011

“Say, Scully?” ventured Murphy, as they lay on their backs beneath the winking stars. “You ever wonder wonder what it might be like to have two teeth?”
A pause; then, softly: “Sometimes I do. It must be … beautiful.”
Deep ponderous pauses on both sides for a while; then Scully asked in turn:
“You ever wonder what it would be like to be Forgiven?”
Something between a moan and a sigh. “All the time, Scully, all the time.”

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

So for a time they rode the rails together, followed their feet and the setting sun. There was that time in Denver (someday tell y’all about that), that business with Chicago (less said the better), and as for Frisco -- well, that much has passed into legend.
So after a time, Murphy felt they’d knocked around enough that he could pop the question.
“Temme, Scully. How’s it come y’only got the one tooth?”
Now Scully bridled at bit at that. “How’s it come you got only the one head.”
Taken aback. “Never needed but the one.”
“Well me neither. Damme, I never lost a tooth in my life. This’ the only one that growed.”

Sunday, May 22, 2011

Beneath the pavement of Broadway, a bit above Bleeker, lay Pfaff’s saloon.
Taking Murphy by the arm, Scully steered him down some narrow steps and into the beer cellar, already loud with drinkers densely wreathed in smoke. Sand strewn on the deal floor; patrons' drawings tacked to the walls. Mostly all male, the exceptions being what are known variously as grisettes or demimondaines. The lighting was dim, such illumination as existed proceeding largely from the ends of cigars.
“B-but” Murphy objected. “This place is sixty eighty years before my time!”
“Don’t you worry,” said Scully. “Old Pfaff won’t mind.”

They made their way slowly through the crowd, Scully nodding to acquaintances as they passed. Scully seemed to know almost everybody there. Murphy’s glance was arrested by the sight of a well-bearded fellow of some three score years, his collar open over a broad chest, a brimmed hat raked down to the right. He nudged Scully with an enquiring look.
“That’s Walt Whitman, the People’s Poet.”
“Whoa! I am out of my element here.”
“Here, no sweat, I’ll introduce you.”

Whitman nodded slowly, sizing him up.
Murphy felt uncomfortable, amid the ring of stares. Finally he threw a punch, just to show he had one.
The poet looked thoughtful as he picked himself up, fished out a loosened tooth and wrapped it carefully in a blue handkerchief, which he then placed in a flapped pocket of his overcoat.
“Quite a punch you got there; shades of Fitz-James O’Brien. Drink?” And without waiting for an answer, the bard signalled to the barkeep, who, without waiting for an order, slid swiftly-silently over with a tray of three tall ones, a trio of frosty schooners bright with beer. Then with a toast to the left, and a toast to the right, the three comrades drank one another’s very good health.

“So what’s your grift?” said Murphy when he had drained the best part of the glass.
“Bard. Yourself?”
“Private Eye.”
The poet nodded. “A fair number of gents would bear watching, in this place.”
Murphy surveyed with a professional eye. “Thieves?”
“Mostly more like fences. Though they do steal one another’s epigrams and that quite shamelessly.”
Murphy shrugged. “Any mug what steals my purse, steals trash; but some guy swipes my one-liners...”
Whitman pursed his lips, and hastily wrote something down on the back of a napkin.

And so the talk went round, as the earth whirled, and the hourhand crawled the clock, and the stars pursued their distant stately orbits. Friends passed through and sat awhile, till he could scarce collect their names -- Bill Howells, Hank Clapp, Sam Clemens, Ed Poe, Steve Crane, trailing a train of Eastern Jews and Irishmen, some but recently arrived from Castle Garden, and calling each other “comrade” and “Brother Brush”: all hosted and toasted in bumpers of beer and ponies of brandy.

Yet when, at length, dawn lifted sleepy eyelids in the east, Murphy found himself alone, back on his own three-slat bed, his soul aswarm with fleeing memories, his mind as clear as a crystal bell.

Friday, May 20, 2011

“You know, Murphy,” said Scully, “If you’n me are to be friends, we prob’ly hafta fight.”
Murphy, sick at heart, could not but acknowledge the wisdom of this.

And so they squared off, beneath the unwinking all-knowing noon-high sun; bare-fisted, hide-breeches, with not a spoken word.

Long, long did the fists fly, whirling, round and round: patient and graceful as the planets in their appointed rounds. Till at length and at last, they lay each full-length in the dust, their blood-specks spattered like stars.

Saturday, May 14, 2011

So the Doc here, he plied me -- plied me and plied me -- till I said some things I maybe shouldn’t have. (By the “Doc”, I don’t mean the sawbones, I mean the slybones, Doctor J.) Got me reminiscing about my old stablemate and companion in sin, One Tooth Scully. -- Mind you, that’s what other folks called him, but I never called him that. True, he didn’t have but the one tooth. But how does that define the man? No more than Arthur “Two Sheds” Jackson. (Funny, though, him having two sheds…)

Now right away you’re saying to yourself: How did you, a city boy, come to know a wand’rin’ ramblin’ wastrel country-boy like old One-Tooth ? Well the answer is plain as day, if you’ll all just hold your horses for a sec. The guy spent his time riding the rails, like the planets rounding round about the sun; and stands to reason, time to time, he’d step off and check out the local soup kitchen, or Salvation Army, or that house where any man not made of wood must (for so we’re made) periodically refresh himself. And one day he stopped off by my city -- think of it as Newark, just to have an image in your head.

Chance would have it, I was down by the rail-yards myself that day, when I see this geezer roll tumbling out the side of a freight-car -- train slowed but it didn’t stop, and him just rolling and rolling like a tumbleweed. But then bright as a bronco he stands right up and dusts himself off, and he flashes me his signature one-tooth grin…

Friday, May 13, 2011

“Hey -- enough with your TR fixation, Murph. You know which one I mean.”

Murphy, taking in the title of the tabloid: “Yeh I do. And I also know that that rag was for Hoover, and that it could hardly say the name of Roosevelt without spitting, long’s he was alive. So when did they get religion?”

“… so you don’t diss my tabloid, ‘kay? Talkin’ Joey here. They got short words and not too many of ‘em; just right for Joey.”

So Murphy considered the matter seriously. “Well… Hard to say how well he’s doing -- best he can, I reckon, for what that’s worth -- and this ‘worthy successor’ stuff, I mean, what does that even mean? No mama brings her son up to be a ‘worthy successor’.

“But I can say this. While Harry was the Veep -- that old bucket-of-warm-spit office -- FDR didn’t do a darn thing to groom him. How you gonna be a worthy successor if the guy you gotta follow doesn’t even want you to succeed? Guy dies and the generals and the scientists gotta say, Oh by the way Mr. Truman, Mr. newboy greenhorn tenderfoot cluelessassmister President, sir, there’s this thing you probably oughta know about now, thing called The Bomb. -- So the way I see it -- worthy successor, couldn’t say; but in that respect, old FDR -- though I voted for him four times -- was not a worthy predecessor.”

Sunday, May 1, 2011

So, Mr. Murphy, the nation is curious.What is your position on the issue of dual citizenship?

“Say what?”

Dual citizenship.When a person is simultaneously a citizen of two different countries.

“I don’t get it.How can that be.”

Well like for instance the al-Qaeda gentleman, Mr. Anwar al-`Awlaqi:he holds full U.S. citizenship, with all the rights and privileges that accrue thereto, and simultaneously is a citizen of his country of actual residence, Yemen, where he has greater leisure to plan his terrorist attacks.Or more recently, these gentlemen, whose nationality swings both ways.

On the corner stands an organ-grinder, grinding his organ round and round.

All day he stands there grinding: yet the organ makes no sound.

Back and forth the people pass; and lo, they mock him not;

nor hear him -- for the organ’s silent; him: by all forgot.

His shabby cap before his feet, to catch the proferred pence.

It empty lies, the folk haste by, as would they spurn him thence.

Mute he stands, and still no sounds come forth from organ-barrel.

All still: but for one surly cur, that bares its fangs to snarl.

*

And Murphy stood intently, listening, all day long;

Until as dusk fell down like snow -- forthwith burst into song:

Wunderlicher Alter -- soll ich fuer dich gehn?

Muss ich deinetwegen deine Leier drehn ?! ?!

Then Murphy takes the station, and the old man goes his way.

His eyes shut tight, with heaving sighs, he then begins to play.

The silence that then issued forth, was like a mighty wind,

sweeping away the grief of all that ever wept and sinned.

Great gusts of soundlessness, like thunder, rolled like clouds on high:

Like Sampson dumb and blinded, cracked the pillars of the sky.

The welkin fell in fragments, and crashed into the sea.

Yet still upon his corner, Murphy did not cease to play.

O Thou who raised the skies, and loosed the birds upon the air:

Do Thou hear the music, of the old man’s wordless prayer.

http://www.tudou.com/programs/view/_CNJKPPviNY

[Update 25 Aug 2011: The link above to Schubert's deep Lied, now seems to lead only to some Japanese sex ads. Modern culture in a nutshell.
Here is an alternate version:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZTu_Jreo1SQ ]

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Murphy Makes a Mitzvah

Murphy Calls in a Specialist

Don't Mention It

From the Mailbag (SERIOUS ENQUIRIES ONLY)

Dear Mr. and Mr. Murphy:

As a law-enforcement professional, I am pleased that you boys have dedicated your lives to ridding the world of bad guys.Yet as a professional in the field of Law Enforcement, I am distressed that, every time you guys get near the china shop, you break the china.Please clean up your act(s)!I am asking you this in my capacity as a professional enforcer of the Law.

V/R,

Sgt. Lazaro

--

Greetings, sergeant!

You’re right; and we’re sorry for all the bad stuff we did, and will probably continue doing.But the next time we lift some long green off some yegg that don’t deserve it, we promise to donate it in its entirety to the Policeman’s Ball.

V/V/R,

The Murphys

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Murphys:

Do you have any idea where I left my car keys?

-- Perplexed

--

Hey Perp.:

What is it about the Interwebs that brings the lamebrains out of the woodwork, always popping up with some off-topic rant or inane inquiry, even to a hi-class quality cultural joint like this one here (O yes we forgot to announce it:string quartet onsite Thursday, usual time, immediately following the poetry reading).We’ve got a good mind to --No, waitaminit. Wait.Hey, you ain’t -- you wouldn’t be the previous owner of that Dodge what we borrowed and forgot to bring back?Cos in that case we can tell you:keys are still in the ignition, just where you considerately left them;only now broken off some.And hey, we’re really sorry.Really meant to bring it right back good is new.Only, the thing that happened was -- well it’s a long story -- actually a really funny one,keep you in stitches, except maybe for that part at the end where we total your car.Really really sorry about that.

Yours attritely,

Murphy X 2

------------------------------------------

Messieurs Murphy:

I write to you in a matter of the utmost delicacy, requiring the most refined discretion.My enquiries have led me to believe that the two of you are of such character as can be relied upon not to (as they say) “spill the beans”.

The matter concerns a diamond -- or as I might say, * the * diamond :none other than that jewel which formed the splendid centerpiece of the crown of Sulayman the Magnificent, who took it in booty, during the wars.

As you may know from your reading of history, the gem in question first went missing in the thirteenth century -- the mystery was never solved -- only to resurfacea century laterin Amsterdam,in the possession of a secretive Jew.From him it was stolen by none other than Jacques le Cocu, and sold for a princely sum to certain merchants, whose identity remains obscure.From thence it was funneled to the private treasures of Frederick the Great -- only to be once again purloined, under the Ottomans, and sent on to Istanbul.There it now resides, in an underground chamber of the inner sanctum of the Topkapi Palace, under the heavy guard of eunuchs whose fanatical loyalty is unquestionable.For years it has lain there, untouched and unseen.

Yet at last comes a chink in its armor.I have proved able, via various bribes and stratagems, to obtain the combination to a lock which seals a hitherto unguessed-at private entrance to the subterranean chamber.I need you to accompany me, as lookouts, and to do battle with the halberd-wielding eunuchs should they get wind of this.Your payment will be substantial; but your real satisfaction will be to see this peerless jewelat last restoredto its rightful owner.

Yours magnificently,

Monsieur le Comte Gran-Tord de Beauville

--

Dear Monsieur, or Beauville, or however it goes:

Thank you for yours of the sixteenth current.We have noted your proposal.I ran it past our Joey department, and he says, No dice.Sounds too much like repo.

--- --- ---

Dear Murphys:

A bad person stole my teddy-bear.Fluffy is now being held captive in a windowless room in a doorless tower within a moat-ringed castle, guarded by heavily-armed zombie deaf-mutes.Could you maybe get him back for me?I can’t actually pay you till my next allowance, but it shouldn’t be too hard.Here’s the secret plans:

(a) Kill all the zombies.

(b) Blow up the moat.

(c ) Get the bear.

Love,

Ginnie

--

Dear Ginnie:

We like that action.You’re on.

Meet us by the old oak.

-- M’s.

~~~

Yo homes!

Man you guys are just tewwwtally kewwwl…. yeww rewwwl, dewwwwdz…I rilly like it how you don’t take no guff from nobody, and how if you see a closed door, you just kick it down.As Casey Stengel put it: “L’audace! Toujours l’audace!”

Jam-Boy

--

Dear Mr. Jam-Boy:

Thank you for your appreciative letter.Casey Stengel is indeed among our favorite authors.

Only, how’s about you go out and buy a couple copies of our g*d-d*mned book, you so eager and all, stead of showering us with your silly witticisms. Our sales are in the terlet, as Casey would say. Epigrams, we can’t eat!

Steamed,

M&M

~~~

Dear Mr. Murphy and Mr. Murphy (respectively):

Do you handle Missing Persons cases?I need you to find my husband.He has disappeared.

It has got me really worried. Can’t eat -- can’t sleep.It is his turn to take out the garbage and he is nowhere to be found.

-- Nervous in Newark

------------------------------

Dear Nervous in Newark:

Missing Persons cases are in fact our bread and butter; and in this case we can share with you some of our expertise for free.

Have you tried looking in the den, in front of the teevee?That is where husbands tend to disappear to, in a case like this.Heck, that’s what *we’d* do.

-- The Murphys

~~~

Hey Murphys,

I married this babe in Vegas the other day (musta been drunk), but now I’m done with her and want to dump her.Think you could come up with some compromising photographs, maybe Photo-Shop ‘em if need be?There’s an extra fiver in it for you if you can help me ditch her fast, cause I already got another hot date for tonight.

-- Rex

------------------------------

Rex:

We do not normally do divorce cases, but in your case we’ll make an exception.

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From the Cracker Barrel

Murphy on the “Allah”/”God” question

Okay fine — not my line — not my deal at all.But it’s all so stupid, I just gotta say something.

Y’see:Folks, they all got these languages.Like, your grandmama spoke Italian, and mine spoke — well, we never knew my dad, and my mom skipped town, but anyhow, somewhere, back in the Old Country, back in the day,great-great-grandfather Patrick and great-great-grandmother Molly were chatting away there in Irish.Capisc’?

So take French.My fans will know this as the frog-talk that I spoke, a little, to such tremendous effect, in one of my famous cases (“Murphy on the Mount”).So like, you & me, we say: “sh*t”; and in France they say, “merde” — pardon my French, it’s actually the only French word I know.So help me out here, dictionary.

Right.We say, “doggie”, and they say, “chien”.And we say, “table”, and they say — well how about that, they say “table” too, only they pronounce it funny.And— here, key point:we say, “God”(like when we’re praying — you gotta not take this name in vain), and the French say — when they’re praying — …. “Dieu”.

Different words — same idea.

— Only, you say:Reeelly?Is it thesame ideareeeally?

Well listen, back in Ireland, we got Catholics and we got Protestants, and they both say “God”, but the stupid ones hate each other, and each says the other

guy got his head up his… (checking out the dictionary now — they was French, they’d say “cul”), and if the other guy says “God” (probably not praying, he just hit his thumb with a hammer), he probably means some purple moon-god with three heads or something; but anyhow, no way those bums know what they are talking about.

And in fact they don’t.And we don’t.I mean, How could we?God is infinite — on top of and at the bottom of and behind of, all things.And us?We’re just us, just doing our best, scraping by. And when any one of us says, “God”, it is really just a prayer: saying, “Thou — there — up there, somewhere —Do thou help us to comprehend…”(My Greek buddies got a word for this:Eleison, Kyrie.)

So we do, most of us, mostly the best that we can; but of “God” we got only the vaguest idea.So we just keep on, keeping on —slipping and sinning and screwing things up, century after century; until one day, God gets fed up, and he sends down his only, lonely, begotten son, to straighten things out. — Least that’s what us Catholics believe;the Protestants, I don’t know.

So where was I?— Yes! — You got, probably, somewhere in your bloodlines, your great-great-great-great-….grandmother Fatima, back from when the Crusaders were over there, laying about them with cutlasses;but after a hard day of crusading, a man’s mind turns to other matters;and lo, behold, that dark-haired beauty, her eyes like almonds, her eyes like diamonds— shy, yet inviting — drawing water from the well.And she’s from the other camp, the bad guys;but that ewer is so heavy, and you you’re a knight, right? and a knight does not leave a damsel to her distress, no no no, Saracen or no Saracen; so maybe he will offer her his services, and maybe later she will offer up a cup of the purest, to his parched lips… Anyway, that’s the story of your great-great-etcetera-grandmother Fatima.

So what did Fatima say; and what does her great-great-(you get the idea)-granddaughter, say today, when praying?

They say:“Allah”.Allah!Meaning it, whatever it means.

And they don’t understand what exactly it does mean, any more than we do, any more than you do, any more than that preacher-man who thinks he does know the real deal and you don’t — any more than does any of us,when we say “God”.

But it’s the same prayer…..

For our French and Arabic speaking readers, here's an interesting exploration of the topic: